


"Hail, Holy Queen"

by killingg_eve



Series: A Very Merry Kinktober 2020 [1]
Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Kinktober, NSFW, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, worshipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:36:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26809003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killingg_eve/pseuds/killingg_eve
Summary: **If you're religious and/or you would be offended to read Christian/Catholic religious sentiments/phrases that are taken out of context, PLEASE don't read this work.**This is a freeform work inspired by the prompt "worshipping kink," except my brain took it quite literally.--Also, I feel that I am reclaiming the beauty and sacredness of wlw sex with this writing choice . . . I am considering it a statement piece.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Series: A Very Merry Kinktober 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1959379
Comments: 18
Kudos: 51





	"Hail, Holy Queen"

“Just like that,” says Eve, who has just determined how far apart Villanelle’s knees should be, as she sits on a wooden chair.

Bare.

Ivory skin glows under soft, yellow light. The honey hue mixes with the honey of her hair; breathtaking, soft. Shimmering. Offset only by the rosy flesh of areolas.

Cheeks wash over with the same, rosy pink as she fights a sudden impulse to clamp her legs shut.

_Good_. She’ll be good, stay open.

The softest satin ribbon. Ebony. She takes Villanelle’s hands behind the chair and wraps it around her wrists three times, securing it with a bow. Pulling to make the loops even.

_Pretty_.

(Dark.)

 _Pretty_.

A kiss to the elbow, while Villanelle can’t see her. “Good.”

A kiss to the other. “Girl.”

Villanelle shudders. The unexpectedness, the dampness of the kisses. The warmth of a mouth and its hot breath against her arms. Her head falls forward at the words.

Eve crawls between her knees. Supports herself on two open thighs, kisses the mouth of the woman whose head still bows.

—But really, it is Eve who genuflects at the foot of that which is sublime. If she could sew the words _Hail_ and _Mary_ together, she would whisper them into parted, blushed lips.

The head that fell forward falls back as kisses move from bottom lip

to jaw

to neck.

“Eve,” escapes her mouth. A whispered chaplet. “ _Please,_ ” follows soon after, and these are words that the Vatican does not know.

She spells “Baby” with her tongue upon a hardened nipple, and the panting she hears in reply convinces her that the recipient can all but hear it.

If biblical Eve created original sin, then it is this Eve who eradicates it with every swipe of her tongue.

“ _Please_ ,” she whispers again in broken halves, but the one adoring at her feet only kisses at her chest – rising, falling.

She suckles on the other nipple. “ _Good Girl._ ”

That psalm, again.

A whimper goes unchecked as she feels the aching brush of teeth. Her thighs squeeze closed around the adorer and then open, again. She makes eye contact, hoping her furrowed brow conveys an apology for the thrashing of strong, marbled legs.

She drags tongue from ribs to naval—and further, still; forgiveness of grievous sins.

She pushes thighs open, stares at glistening skin the way that pilgrims take relics from the holy land. Explores folds the way that they pick a stone off the ground and run their thumb over it.

“ _Eve_ ,” she calls as servant collects wetness and brushes it over the highest point.

_They promised a land flowing with milk and honey_.

"Baby, so wet for me, _”_ she speaks in reply, in homage to the Most High. Knelt down in adoration.

A whimpered cry escapes when tongue meets silky heat, and she pulls at the black ribbon and wonders if this is what it means to be the sacrificial lamb.

She flicks at slick skin and receives the taste.

Within minutes, she begs faithful servant. “Please, can I come?”

“Not yet.” A terse response. It takes ten beads to reach a decade.

The adorned weeps into her own shoulder, cries out as if worried, practically mourns.

“Haven’t I been good?”

( _Why have you forsaken me?_ )

She moves her tongue away, immediately replaces it with circling finger. “Baby, you have been so good for me.”

“Then wh—”

“Because I’m not done.”

She replaces her tongue, presses dampened finger into entrance, promises to repent later, while she savors the taste.

_I’ve Sinned_ , she laps against throbbing nerve endings. Penance defines itself as thrusts of two fingers.

“Please, I’m so close,” she weeps. Children who have fallen away can return to good graces.

Eve can’t deny that the 56th bead states _Hail, Holy Queen_. Eve can’t deny that water turns to wine, that we all return to ashes.

“Come for me. Good girl. Come for me.”

This is what mercy looks like.

She clenches against worshipping fingers, throws her head forward again. Because even the son kneels to the father, and the woman haloed with constellations kneels to both.

Eve stills her searching fingers; finds an answer; receives a miracle. She is a visionary, adoring as pleasure looks a lot like pain, and then a lot like peace. Relief. Honeyed hair cascades over her shoulders as she murmurs sweet praises.

_“Gorgeous. Good, gorgeous girl.”_

Then, she kisses soft lips, the way that a sacrament is received on the tongue.

The revered one kisses back. Tastes the gospel on her lips. Tests the ribbon again, aching to fall from the cross, to be anchored to the ground by loving arms.

Eve grazes parted lips across jawline and reaches behind, tugging the pretty bow loose, all but hearing wrinkled satin fall to the floor.

Hands caress her face and she remembers that she is mere mortal. In the end, the one in power chooses the 144,000. She shivers under newly-freed hands, wanting to kiss at holes in wrists, but is overtaken by the strength and power of that whom she served. Maybe the restraint was the only way she could be softened. Maybe god became a mortal for the same reason.

Those hands, those long fingers, wrap around her middle and guide her up onto Villanelle’s lap.

Hungry lips find the soft part of her neck, the peaks of her breasts.

Now, she’s the one spread open. Now, she’s the forbidden fruit.


End file.
